The Fraser Bride (7 page)

Nay! That was not it at all. He was pacing while he tried to ascertain if he should accompany her. Not that he had any desire whatsoever to spend days and nights by the girl’s side; he did not. Even if her lips said she was all confidence while her hands pleaded for help, she didn’t need him. Even if her skin begged …

Damnation!

His brothers were in trouble. That was the only reason he was considering the journey. Daft as they were, they were still his brothers, and in their present addle-witted state, they could too easily be led astray by a bonny face or a comely figure.

And
her
face and
her
figure …

He stopped the thought. He had no interest in either of those mundane characteristics. He had learned that a lovely countenance oft hid an evil heart. It had left a scar and he would not forget. When it came time to take a wife, he would choose one with plain features and average form, one who did not turn men’s wits to jelly. One who did not destroy innocent lives while proclaiming everlasting devotion and …

Ramsay tightened his fists and closed his eyes to the acid memories. They ate at his innards, threatened his sanity, eroded his peace.

Just as she did. So, ‘twould do his brothers no good if he accompanied them. It would only be another lesson in futility, he decided, as he found his bed and forced himself upon its lonely surface.

He would stay at Dun Ard and forget how her chin jutted just so, as haughty as a queen’s, while in the depth of her azure eyes there seemed to be an everlasting flicker of fear that—

“Damn!” he muttered, and turning his face into his pillow, tried to forget all about how her hair gleamed in the firelight, how her delicate body felt against his arm, and how, when they kissed, he felt as if her very soul spoke to his. Not of certainty and pride, but of fears and doubts and a small slip of a lass who needed him like none other.

* * * * *

” ‘Twill be monotonous, riding in the midst of the company,” Gilmour said. “Please, Lachlan, feel free to lead us. I shall take the tedious task of accompanying the lass.” He turned his gaze to Mary, who rode just out of hearing with the maid servant.

“How generous of you.” Lachlan settled into his saddle. “But you needn’t put yourself out, brother. I’ll be riding with—” he began, but suddenly his eyes widened. “Ram,” he said, turning toward his elder brother. “Why are you here?”

Ramsay held Gryfon’s reins with studied indifference and refused to let his gaze fall to the girl astride the white mare. She wore a velvet cape of emerald green that draped over her steed’s ivory croup. Beneath the cape, a sapphire gown with slashed sleeves adorned her small frame. The bright colors made her face look as pale as ivory, framed by the long, loose flow of her golden hair. Like an angel’s. But she was no angel, Ramsay thought, and forced himself to see the reality. Near the girl’s scruffy shoes, her cloak was stained, and her gown, borrowed from Dun Ard’s coffers, was too large for her narrow form. Yet despite all the hardships she had endured, she looked as regal as a queen, as bonny as a—

Ramsay cut short his thoughts, jabbed Gryfon’s grinding weight off his toes, and swore in silence. ‘Twas hardly the girl’s soft gentility that had brought him here. Nay, ‘twas the damage she could do amongst his kinsmen.

“I’ll be accompanying you,” he rumbled, eyeing first Lachlan, then Gilmour.

“Accompanying us?” they asked in unison.

He didn’t respond, but mounted instead. Beneath him, Gryfon sidled toward the mare, as if none would recognize his plan if he approached with mincing steps. Ramsay kicked him in the flank, and the stallion halted with a grunt and a irritable flip of his black tail.

“Brother,” Gilmour said. “As much as I appreciate your company, I hardly think it necessary.”

“You hardly think at all,” Lachlan said.

“We cannot all be such scholars as thou, dear brother.”

“And we cannot all—”

“Hear me,” Ramsay interrupted. His head ached from lack of sleep and every muscle felt as tense as a drawn bow. “I am here merely to see you two dolts safely through this journey and back—naught else. I have no designs on the lass, so you can rest comforted on that account.”

“No designs?” It was Lachlan who spoke, though his voice was little above a rumble.

“Nay,” he confirmed.

“No interest at all?”

Ramsay said nothing.

“So …” Gilmour nudged his mount closer and glanced at the girl. “You do not find her …” For a moment he seemed to lose his breath, but finally he sighed, pulled his attention back to his brother, and grinned with foolish enthusiasm. “You do not find her entrancing?”

Ramsay’s muscles tightened another notch, like a crossbow stretched to breaking. Damn it all to hell! He should have stayed in bed, should have ignored the sound of hoofbeats on cobblestones, should have forgotten how she felt in his …

“Nay. I do not.” Tightening his grip on the reins, he turned Gryfon abruptly away.

Lachlan glowered and Gilmour laughed. “This may prove to be even more fun than I expected.”

The morning was misty, cool, and still. They rode at a steady pace, skirting boulders and ledges, avoiding the numerous rivulets and burns where they could and plowing through when they could not.

By early afternoon the mist had fled, but the clouds had roiled in. They bubbled overhead, casting long shadows and cool sunlight randomly across the evergreen landscape.

Up ahead, Mary’s maid servant giggled.

Ramsay frowned at the noise. “Whatever happened to Elspeth?”

“What?” Lachlan seemed distracted, his attention pinned on the group ahead. Gilmour rode beside Mary, and the maid Caraid, only slightly older than the girl she escorted, rode beside her.

“Elspeth,” Ramsay repeated. “I thought she had been chosen to see to the lass’s well being during this journey.”

“Mmmm.” Lachlan’s gaze never left Mary’s back. “It seems there is a bairn that needs birthing. She could not afford to leave Dun Ard.”

“A bairn?”

“Aye, Hazel of the Fens’ child.”

“Ahh.”

“Gilmour knows her.”

“Of course,” Ramsay said. Or at least, Gilmour had thought of that excuse to keep Elspeth close to home. Caraid was young and comely and readily distracted. Elspeth was old, crotchety, and about as easily charmed as cracked shoe leather. And Gilmour was an ass. Beside Ramsay, Lachlan shifted restlessly in his saddle and cast him a jaundiced stare.

“What do you mean,
of course?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why did you say it?”

Ramsay scowled. ” ‘Twill be a long journey, Lachlan. Do not look for deep meaning where there is none. I was merely trying to keep you entertained with me clever conversation.”

“You think it’s his?”

“What?”

“Hazel’s bairn? Do you think it might be Mour’s?”

Ramsay snapped his gaze to Lachlan’s, his gut cramping. “Is there a chance of it?”

“A chance?” Lachlan chuckled, but the sound was less than jovial. ” ‘Tis Mour we speak of here, is it not?”

“Aye.” Ramsay scowled. “The lad is … wayward at times, but—”

“Wayward!” Lachlan growled. “He’s a randy hound without the scruples of a starved mackerel.”

A slow burn began in Ramsay’s gut. He tightened his hands on the reins so that the leather bit into his fingers. “Does he have wee ones that we know nothing of?”

“What’s that?” Lachlan asked, and turned his scowl from Gilmour to Ramsay.

“Gilmour!” Ramsay gritted. “Has he fathered children?”

Lachlan shifted his gaze away. “Nay,” he said sulkily, as if he were loath to admit it. “But he’s a lovable bastard, and if he tries any of that charming shit on the lass, he’ll be supping on me fist this night.”

“Good Christ!” Ramsay wished to God he had stayed home.

* * * * *

It rained that night, not hard, but steady. By morning the road was slippery and the going slow.

Again Gilmour rode beside Mary. Now and then Ramsay heard her golden laughter and his gut would spew out a bit more bile. Ahead of him, Lachlan’s stance became stiffer by the hour.

By nightfall Ramsay’s stomach was twisted in a tight knot and Lachlan’s back looked as unbending as a lance.

Tents were erected, supper prepared and consumed. Near the cook fire, Gilmour wended his way toward his wild tale’s dramatic ending. The soldiers listened intently, Caraid gasped, and Gilmour leaned toward his audience, his arm brushing Mary’s.

As for Ramsay, he sat in the shadows, keeping his eyes averted from the flame, watching the night.

He was a dolt for coming.

“Nay!” someone said, but not to his own discordant thoughts.

” ‘Tis not true,” another chimed in.

The clamor of discord yanked Ramsay’s attention toward the crowd, but there was no real trouble, only another unbelievable ending to one of Gilmour’s unbelievable tales. Of Roderic’s five sons, Gilmour was the most like their sire. Long on imagination, longer on charm, but short on any compunction to adhere to the truth when spinning a yarn, especially if there was a bonny lass near at hand.

Ramsay tightened his fist around a branch of prickly gorse and felt better at the bite of thorns.

From the fire beside him the noise dimmed. He heard a rustle of movement but refused to turn toward it. He might be an idiot but he knew enough not to get involved—not with her. He was here only to prevent trouble. Nothing about her fascinated him, not her kitten soft exterior nor her sharp edged attitude. Not her condescending voice nor her fretful hands. Nay, ‘twas only for his brothers that he had come. The bastards.

“Mary,” said the younger of the two bastards.

“Aye?”

He heard her cool voice as clearly as Gilmour’s, though they were hidden from sight by shadows and brush.

“Where do you go?” Gilmour took a few more steps, presumably closing the gap between himself and the girl.

“Sir.” Her voice was quiet, with the slightest hint of teasing in it. “I fear ‘tis not for you to know.”

“Ahh.” Another rustle of sound. Was he moving closer still? The prickly gorse snapped in Ramsay’s hand. “Private business.”

“You are quite astute, my laird.”

Gilmour chuckled. “Astute enough to know that a bonny lass such as yourself should not wander alone in the woods.”

There was a moment of silence. “Mayhap you and I have a different meaning for ‘private business.’ “

He laughed again. “I assure you, Mary mine, I will go only as far as you say. ‘Tis your prerogative to call a halt at any time.”

Ramsay heard her skirts sigh against unseen underbrush. “Tell me, my laird, do we still talk of my venture into the woods?”

“Most assuredly so. But if you like, we could speak of other things … afterward. The moon is quite bonny this night and me legs could use a new form of exercise. Mayhap—”

“Brother!” Lachlan’s interruption startled even Ramsay, for the lad could move as silently as a shade when the mood suited him. “Might I have a word with you?”

Ramsay exhaled and dropped the gorse to the ground. A droplet of unnoticed blood followed its descent.

“In truth,” Gilmour said, “I was just discussing a matter of some import with the lass.”

“And what of your teeth, brother?” Lachlan asked, his tone marvelously level. “Do you feel they have some import?”

There was a slight pause and then Gilmour chuckled. “Mayhap you should see to your business, lass,” he said. “It seems me brother wishes to speak to me.”

In a moment she was gone, slipping quietly through the darkness of the woods.

“So, brother,” Gilmour said, his tone cheery. “You wished to discuss teeth.”

“Aye, I did. Where would you like yours?”

“I had rather planned on keeping them where they are.” Gilmour’s chuckle grated on Ramsay’s nerves and was bound to do so three fold on Lachlan, who had never had the patience of a gnat.

“Then you’d best keep your bloody hands off the lady of Levenlair.”

” ‘Tis exactly what I’ve been doing.”

“But not what you hoped to do, aye?”

Ramsay could almost hear the shrug in Gilmour’s tone. “If we have not hope, what have we?”

“All your teeth set firmly in their place.”

“It occurs to me,” Gilmour said, “that it has been some time since you and I have brawled. As I recall, I was smaller then.”

“You imagine your size matters?”

“Mayhap it matters a great deal.”

“Are you challenging me, Mour?”

“The lass is not for you,” Gilmour said, and spread his stance.

“Tell me, brother, are you that bored or that foolish?”

“Perhaps I am that smitten.”

“Smitten!” Lachlan growled. “Randy, more like.”

“Is there a difference?”

“There is where she’s concerned,” Lachlan growled. “You’ll take back your words or you’ll be eating them for—”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Ramsay said, rising abruptly to his feet. “Shut up, the two of you.”

“Ramsay!”

“What are you doing here?”

“Listening to two fools babble in the darkness.”

“Out here?”

“Directly in Mary’s path to the burn?”

Ramsay snarled a curse. “What the devil’s wrong with you? You’re acting like a pair of dolts, snarling over her like wolves on fresh carrion.”

“Are you calling the lass carrion?” Lachlan asked, his tone disbelieving.

Ramsay swore again, but Lachlan interrupted even that succinct bit of emotion.

“Are you so callous that you do not know, brother?”

“Know?”

“Did you not see her as she lay unconscious? Did you not feel her sweetness? The lass is goodness itself.”

Ramsay’s snort of laughter echoed in the woods. “Believe this, brother mine. She may be many things, but she is not goodness itself.”

“Why do you say so?” Gilmour asked.

“A dozen things. Do you not see it?” Ramsay asked, frustration burning through him. “Never is her story straight. Not when she first came to, not when she awoke in the night, not—”

“When she awoke in what night?” Gilmour asked.

“She said she had a dream,” Ramsay said. “That she was all atremble with fear when—”

“She was afraid?”